


Winds of Change

by MiHnn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/pseuds/MiHnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The players never change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winds of Change

**Author's Note:**

> Written for asoiaf exchange over at LJ

For so long her dreams had been the same. 

She would first dwell on the happy faces of her mother, her father and her dead brothers, the tall, strong walls of Winterfell and the bright red of the Godswood. Then her mind would concentrate on memories, of Septa Mordane smiling proudly after she had demonstrated her skills, of Jeyne Poole whispering of the boys she had seen and the clink of steel amongst loud, raucous laughter drifting through the window on a cold day just when the sun was nearing its highest peak. These were the dreams that made her smile and these were the dreams that, when lost, caused her to whimper. 

Almost too soon, her thoughts would change to memories that were less familiar; to memories she had long since forgotten. Golden curls and malicious smirks haunted her nights, the feel of the backhanded slap so familiar that she was known to wince in her sleep. The cruel boy she suffered in her dreams had breathed out his last breath many years past, yet nearly every night he visited her in her dreams, hissing words of hate and filth as she cowered in fear. She had never felt safe when he had been alive and now, even when dead, she didn’t feel safe by her memories.

Her thoughts never stayed on the former King of Westeros for long. His sneer would suddenly twist and warp until he was no longer the Boy King but a woman who looked so much like her mother but for the lack of kindness in her eyes. In Sansa’s dreams, she was the one who was pushed through the Moon Door until she was falling and falling and falling, her voice crying for help, her limbs flailing until suddenly she’s brought back to the world of the living with an unhappy jolt.

But now her dreams had begun to change.

No longer was she remembering the sting of pain, words full of hatred or her beloved family covered in blood. No longer was she experiencing the sense of loss and loneliness that had clutched itself hard against her chest. Her dreams now held a boy and girl, too young to be anything but innocent, their grins wide, their hair spun silver-gold and their eyes brimming with mischief. She thought of laughter, happiness and love. Now that she finally felt safe, her dreams could only make her smile. 

“Your grace.”

The words were spoken softly but the sense of urgency was what made Sansa blink open her eyes as she fought the need to rest. Slowly, she turned over in bed, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness surrounding her chambers. “What is it?” Her speech was mumbled but her mind had awoken swiftly. She wondered what could have been so important to force her awake before sun rise. 

Mya, her servant, stared at her with wide fearful eyes that shone brilliantly in the cascading moonlight. “It’s his majesty.”

Sansa stared at her trusted friend for a moment before her expression settled into a mask that was neutral. She stood quickly, allowing the young girl to drape her shoulders with silk before she said promptly, “Take me to him.”

With a bow, the girl led her out of her bedchamber, her steps light and her feet moving quickly. Sansa followed a short distance behind, her heart beating a medley of panic within her chest. They did not have far to go. As Sansa thought, her servant girl led her to her husband’s chambers. 

The moment she entered, a sudden hush fell on those who had surrounded her husband’s bed, their backs stiff and their eyes keen as they watched the fleeting expressions that crossed her features. Sansa found her husband lying peacefully in his bed, his eyes closed almost in the image of uninhibited slumber. The only thing that could dispute such a thought was how his bare chest stayed motionless and his skin seemed too cold for a ruler who had the blood of a dragon coursing through his veins. 

As she neared the bed, Sansa fell onto her knees, her hand rising to lightly feel his forehead as if all he had was a fever. She let her palm touch his smooth skin as she traced his neck in search for a pulse; but she could feel nothing that hinted at life.

“What happened?” she whispered softly, letting her hand lie flat on his immovable chest. 

“It was his heart,” Grand Maester Pycelle stated gruffly. “We always knew that the King had a weak heart. It was a blessing from the Seven that he fought the illness so valiantly and for so long.”

It had been years since Sansa had learned the valuable lesson of schooling her features so that none could understand her thoughts, yet she found it hard to ask the maester, “Are you sure?”

He sputtered in surprise. “Yes, your grace. We can only be thankful that he didn’t suffer. Death came to him on merciful wings.” 

Sansa felt her throat constrict. Her husband had been healthy. He had fire in his blood as surely as his hair was white-gold and his father was Rhaegar Targaryen. Unconsciously, she touched her own stomach as an unwanted thought entered her mind. She did not doubt that this was not a natural death. Sansa would not have expected such a young, healthy King to be outlived by a much older maester. No, this was the work of someone who knew the art of assassinations. 

“Leave me,” she said softly, letting a small sob escape her lips while she took his lifeless hand in her own. “I need to pray for guidance.”

Her husband’s advisors bowed low before leaving her alone with the corpse of a once great leader. She remembered the first time they met, his charming smile and his friendly demeanour immediately placing her at ease. She had already been widowed after her husband, Harrold Hardyng, had perished in war while trying to lay siege to Winterfell. Aegon was in need of the support of the North to take back his birth right and their marriage was arranged by the one man who Sansa had come to depend on solely to survive. Years had passed, the throne was won, and she had given birth to two healthy young dragons with Tully eyes and one more to come. 

She did not weep nor did she feel regret. She simply wanted to know the truth. 

Leaving her dead husband and her tears, Sansa went to go confront the one person who would know what had occurred.

* * *

Sansa didn’t wait until the guards closed the door behind her before she turned to face the man who she hardly faced for fear of her own lack of control.

“You killed him.” She hadn’t intended to say those words, but the moment she did, Sansa knew they were true.

Petyr smiled wistfully from where he was seated, almost as if what she had suggested was so outlandish it could not have been farther from the truth.

He stood from his chair and walked towards her slowly, his lips twisting in a faint smile while his eyes stayed cool and humourless. “Why would you think that?” 

Sansa kept her gaze on the features she had come to know and love but never truly read. Unlike all others in her life, Petyr was the one who she could never predict. His actions were always secret, his influence as swift as the wind. 

At her stubborn gaze, his smile only seemed to widen. “I was told that your King was to find his entertainment _elsewhere_.”

Sansa’s lips tightened, the thought of the rumour tightening her chest with a sense of rejection. 

“I believe that defeated the purpose of a marriage, don’t you agree?” He stepped closer to her, his head ducking in a small bow. When he spoke again, his tone held a note of seriousness that she had rarely ever heard from the usually jovial man. “How he could do that to you I would never know.” 

Sansa felt a tiny shiver race up her spine. “You killed my husband because of that?” she whispered shakily. Her eyes rose to meet his defiantly. “You killed the father of my children?” 

He raised his hand to touch her slightly protruding belly. “No,” he said softly as his fingers lightly caressed her stomach through the silk. “I gave you Westeros.”

Sansa stared at her guardian in surprise, the true weight of what had happened finally filling her mind. 

Petyr smiled affectionately at her while his other hand circled the back of her throat to keep her from looking away from him. “I told you once that I would give you Winterfell, and I did.” He stepped closer, the hand on her belly moving in lazy circles. “I then told you that I would give you Westeros.” His gaze fell down to her lips whilst his thumb stroked the chapped flesh reverently. 

Sansa’s face contorted in confusion. “You did give me Westeros,” she said softly. “You gave me a long lost Prince to marry.”

He looked at her with such affection that Sansa couldn’t help but think that she had not quite realised what he had planned. But it was his eyes that finally told the story.

“You wanted to rule with me,” she found herself muttering softly, wondering vaguely why she never truly thought of that.

“You are now the Queen Regent until your son comes of age and I am your Hand.” He lowered his gaze onto her belly, his voice softening slightly. “I will gladly treat your children as my own.” When his eyes rose to meet hers once again, his eyes darkened possessively. 

“Now, kiss me, My Queen, for I have given you Seven Kingdoms to rule.”


End file.
